


in a pickle

by M0stlyVoid



Series: Kinktober 2020 [28]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Baking, Bets & Wagers, Blow Jobs, First Time, Flirting, Food, Food Sex, Icing, Kitchen Sex, M/M, of the sexy variety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:49:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27275218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid
Summary: Draco should have known better than to try and bake something this complicated; now he owes Potter a debt.Luckily, he's more than willing to pay up.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Kinktober 2020 [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1948741
Comments: 12
Kudos: 215





	in a pickle

**Author's Note:**

> the october 28 prompt for kinktober 2020 is— _food play_.

“Shit, fuck, shit, sodding motherfucking fuck, fuck this whole fucking, shitting, _bloody idiotic idea,_ ” Draco says, staring around his kitchen in horror and tugging at the ends of his hair.

His floor is covered in flour. There’s sugar crusted along the counters, and the bowl of icing he’d optimistically set aside has congealed down into… _something_ he’d rather not examine too closely, and he’d had to _Silencio_ the little round Muggle devices that were set into the ceiling because they kept beeping. He’d opened a window, but the entire room is still wreathed in sickly-sweet smoke, and he’s scared to open the oven.

Sighing, he Vanishes the icing, Conjures up a mini-cyclone to sweep the smoke out of the room, and contemplates Vanishing his entire oven for a minute before he shakes his head, opens the door a crack, and casts a spell that should Banish any food while keeping the mechanics intact.

Hopefully. Although maybe it would be for the best; Draco can’t imagine it’s still in working order, after that. He’ll have to buy a new one. Hopefully the appliance shop will send over those large men in those tiny, _tiny_ vests again to install it.

Scrubbing his hand over his face, Draco snatches the cookbook and beats a tactical retreat into the sitting room to read the recipe again. It’s mid morning, and Teddy’s party is in six hours, and he’s _determined_ to come out on top of this little adventure.

At that rather poor choice of words, he shifts and tries to focus on the glossy pages in front of him, but he can’t help but think of how, exactly, he’s gotten himself into this very literal mess.

Bloody Potter and his bloody _wagers_.

It had started innocently enough a few years ago, when they began running into each other at Andromeda’s and decided that it would be easier to just _get along_ instead of subjecting Teddy to their squabbles, or having to put together a complicated schedule just to avoid one another.

 _I’ll bet you the last biscuit you can’t make Andromeda blush with that story you told at the pub last week,_ Harry would say, or _I’ll bet you a week’s worth of nappy changes that his first word will be Harry_.

They evolved eventually; _Potter, if you can finish this drink in under fifteen seconds I’ll pay for your broom maintenance for the next month_ ; _If you’re able to pull that painfully hot bloke in the corner, Malfoy, I’ll cook that pasta thing you like so much for dinner next Friday_.

Their friends all roll their eyes, now, but lately Draco’s been thinking these bets have taken on a new flavour, a new hint of… _something_. He and Potter are circling each other, waiting, and then Potter’s last bet as they were leaving Andromeda’s last weekend, after two straight hours of listening to Teddy chatter excitedly about his birthday party next weekend…

“I bet you can’t _actually_ bake that layer cake like you were talking about,” Harry had said as they walked down the path.

Draco had sniffed. “I _can,_ Potter; baking is just like Potions, _not_ that you’d know anything about that. You’ll see.”

Harry had stopped, then, and Draco had turned to face him, one eyebrow raised in question. “Care to make it interesting?” he’d offered, and there was something new in his gaze.

Draco’s neck had prickled, but he shrugged as casually as he could. “Why not. What are your terms?”

Harry’s smile had been a bright, hard, fleeting thing, almost enough to make Draco back down. Almost. “If I win, and you can’t bake this cake...you’ll let me suck you off.”

Draco had choked on air. “And...if I _am_ able to make it?” he’d said when he regained the ability to speak.

Harry had looked him up and down and smirked, and it had been _filthy,_ and Draco had started to get hard in his robes. “I’m sure you’ll think of something acceptable to claim,” he’d responded, before Disapparating with a _crack_.

Draco shivers, now, remembering the look in Harry’s eye, the dangerous lilt to his voice, and frowns down at the recipe book. He has to _focus_. He doesn’t know what he’s going to claim from Harry yet, but, well...he’ll think of something. _That_ won’t be a problem.

* * *

Three hours later, and Draco is sweating and staring around his kitchen in despair.

He doesn't understand what he did wrong. On his fourth attempt, the icing came out _perfect_ ; he’d tasted it and it was divine, a rich dark chocolate in the absolute perfect consistency. He’d wrapped the bowl carefully and set it in the refrigerator until the cake was ready for it.

But the cake…

Draco _can’t do this_. This is his third attempt to make the actual _cake_ portion of the dessert, and while it’s definitely improved from whatever horrorshow had almost destroyed his entire flat, it’s still a sad, lumpy thing, listing off to one side on the pan and half-covered in a burnt crust.

Draco considers his options. He’s out of sugar and vanilla extract now, so he’d have to run to the shops for more, but at this point, he’s not sure he’ll _ever_ get this right. He could always buy a pre-made cake and put his icing on it, but that feels like cheating, and Draco would _never_ cheat his cousin.

And then there’s the matter of his wager with Potter.

It’s not as if Draco would _mind_ losing, if Potter’s terms were at all genuine and not just him taking the piss. It’s the principle of the thing, though; he’s never _given up_ on one of their bets before.

This isn’t just about them and whatever conclusion these little games have been moving them towards, though. This is about Teddy. And Draco refuses to disappoint his family, not any more.

Sighing, Draco heads back into the sitting room and crouches in front of the fireplace with a pinch of Floo powder. “The Den!” he calls when the fire turns green, wincing at Potter’s utterly idiotic Floo address as always.

He rocks impatiently on his heels as he waits for Potter to answer, mind racing as he reviews and discards various introductions to his current dilemma. He’s so engrossed in figuring out what to say that Potter’s called his name three times before he blinks back to the present.

Potter squints at him through the flames. “Alright, Malfoy? You back with me? What’s going on?”

Sighing, Draco abandons his clever wordplay and lays his cards on the table. “I can’t do it, Potter. I got the icing but I can’t make this sodding bloody _cake_. I keep fucking up, and now I’m out of ingredients. Can you help?”

Potter chuckles, and Draco frowns. Prat. “Draco, Draco, Draco. Is this you conceding? You remember our _terms,_ don’t you?”

Draco’s grateful Potter’s in the fire and can’t see how red he’s turning. “Whatever, Potter,” he snaps. “Fine, you win. Are you going to _help,_ or were you planning on gloating, and making fun of me, and depriving Teddy of a cake for his birthday?”

Potter’s jaw drops. “What? No, of course not. Why do you think I’m making fun of you? Wait—don’t answer—let me just get the cake stuff and I’ll come over. We’ll get it fixed, alright?” Potter snaps the connection shut and Draco sits back, feeling foolish for his outburst.

Sighing, he wanders back into the kitchen. He considers Vanishing his latest attempt, but he gets distracted with trying to scrub sugar off the counter (bloody stuff is resistant to his _Scourgify_ ), and when Potter steps through the door, a box of baking supplies floating behind him, Draco is sweating and swearing at his barely-cleaned kitchen, and the cake has tilted so far to the side it’s in danger of simply toppling over.

Potter stops short and blinks around at the catastrophe, but catches Draco’s eye and wisely says nothing about it. “Well!” he says cheerily, directing his box to the table and stealthily cleaning Draco’s counters with a muttered spell Draco doesn’t catch. “We’ve got just enough time to get the cake in the oven, then make the icing while it bakes, and that can chill while—”

“I made the icing,” Draco rushes to interrupt, feeling the need to prove he isn’t _totally_ incapable. “It’s in the refrigerator. It took a few tries but— Well. The icing is ready.”

“Great!” Potter says, crossing to peer into the refrigerator. “Wow, Malfoy, this looks perfect, actually. It’s the exact right texture and consistency. Did you use milk chocolate?”

“Dark,” Draco mutters, ducking his head. It’s a silly thing to feel proud of, he knows, but he _is_. “That was my fourth try but it— Well, I tasted it too, and it’s _good_. Do you want to try some?” He’s eager, suddenly, to prove it to Potter.

“No, we want to keep it cool until the cake is out of the oven; we’ll bring it out about 15 minutes before we’re ready to frost, to make sure it’s easy to work with, and I’ll try it then. I’m sure it’s great.” Potter shuts the refrigerator and smiles at Draco, that small, special one Draco’s never seen him direct towards anyone else. “Now. Shall we get started?”

A surprisingly short amount of time later, the cake is out of the oven, and Draco and Potter are halfway through their second bottle of wine ( _fuck_ if Draco is going to a child’s birthday party sober, as much as he loves Teddy).

“It has to cool now,” Potter says; he always turns a bit pink when he’s drinking, and Draco admires the flush high on his cheekbones. “It’ll probably take half an hour before we can ice it without the cake tearing.”

“Well then,” Draco says grandly, gesturing with the half-empty bottle. “Shall we decamp to the sitting room?”

“You’re such a knob,” Potter says fondly, but he follows Draco out of the kitchen, stopping to grab two glasses of water on his way.

They settle into their usual seats, on either end of the vast comfortable couch in the middle of the room, and Draco’s about to launch into just how much a hash of things he’d made earlier in the day, but before he can even open his mouth, Potter sits up and leans closer to him, eyes bright and intent. “So. You haven’t...I mean. Do you remember what my terms were, if I won?”

Potter stills. “You,” he starts, then clears his throat. “You were serious.”

Potter draws back, the light in his eyes dimming. “I was, but you clearly… Never mind. Forget I said anything. Do you want another glass?”

He reaches for the bottle, but Draco twitches his hand instinctively and sends it sailing back to the kitchen. “Don’t jump to conclusions, Potter,” he says lowly, moving across the sofa until they’re pressed up against each other.

Potter’s eyes are darting all over his face, pupils slowly widening. “Okay,” he whispers, “then why don’t you tell me what you thought of my _terms,_ Malfoy.”

Draco doesn’t think he has access to the right words, not with the tension that’s been between them for _months_ now finally pulling taut, about to snap, so he leans forward and kisses Potter.

It starts soft, gentle, exploratory, but then Potter’s hands slide down from Draco’s shoulders to his waist, and then his arse, and Draco moans into his mouth, and soon Potter has to pull off his glasses and send them winging back into the kitchen, and in the momentary distraction his magic sliding through the air causes, manages to shove Draco down against the couch and crawl on top of him.

Things are getting heated, and Potter’s thrusting against him, and Draco’s starting to wonder if he’s going to come in his pants like he’s back in Hogwarts again, when an alarm starts blaring, and they spring apart.

Draco presses against his chest, where his heart feels about to burst it’s racing so quickly. “Fuck,” he mutters, staring at Potter, who’s equally flustered and wide-eyed.

The alarm goes off with a twiddle of Potter’s fingers, and they look at each other for another minute before they both start laughing.

“Bloody hell,” Potter groans, standing and pressing down on the impressive bulge in his trousers. “The bloody cake needs frosting now. Come on, Malfoy; let’s go see if this icing is as good as you claim it is.”

Draco breathes on the sofa for a minute, trying to will his erection down with no success, before he finally shakes his head and heads back into the kitchen.

Potter’s got the icing out on the counter with the plastic wrapping already discarded when Draco makes his way in, and he’s poised with a spoon, clearly about to take a taste. Draco eyes the icing, then Potter, and gets an idea.

He crosses the room and snatches the spoon from Potter’s hand, then dips his finger into the icing and holds it in front of Harry’s mouth. “Did you want to try some?” he asks innocently.

Potter’s eyes darken, and he takes Draco’s finger into his mouth, licking far more than is needed to get the icing off, then pulling off with a long, slow suck. Draco’s panting by the time his finger is free again.

“It’s good,” Potter says. “Were you interested in me trying that anywhere _else_?”

“Fuck,” Draco whimpers, and Potter takes it as the _yes_ it clearly was, dropping to his knees and fumbling with Draco’s trousers.

Soon, his trousers and pants are around his ankles, and Draco’s leaning back against the counter, white-knuckling the edge in an effort to not thrust, as Potter grips his thighs and takes his cock down into his throat.

“Ffffuck ohmygod _Harry,_ ” Draco gasps, staring down at that dark head bobbing over his dick. Potter’s mouth is hot, and his throat is _so tight,_ and Draco can’t _believe_ this is really happening.

Potter sucks off his cock and glances up, meeting Draco’s eye with a wink. “Come on, Malfoy; don’t just _stand_ there,” he says tauntingly before he dives back in.

Moaning, Draco thrusts, just a little, not enough to choke—he’s not inconsiderate, and he doesn’t know Potter’s limits ( _not yet,_ his brain whispers), but it’s enough, and when Potter’s nose is pressed up against his closely-trimmed pubic hair, Draco comes with a whimper, sagging back against the counter.

Potter swallows around his cock once, twice more, then pulls back, wipes his mouth, and stands, undoing his jeans and shoving them and his pants down to mid-thigh. “Merlin, you smell so _good,_ ” he moans, taking himself in hand and stroking. “Like honey and caramel. Fuck, _Draco,_ what are you—” he chokes off the last few words, because Draco’s Conjured some lube onto his own fingers and pushed Harry’s hand away, and started stroking Potter’s cock himself.

Potter’s close, that much is clear by his panting breaths and the flush rising on his face, and when Draco puts his mouth next to Potter’s ear and whispers “I can’t wait to feel this inside me,” he comes so hard he staggers on his feet and almost falls.

Draco catches him, and they hold each other close until they’re recovered. Potter steps back and scratches the back of his neck, laughing ruefully, but his eyes are bright, and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He starts to say something, eyes snapping with mirth, but Draco checks the clock above the refrigerator and sucks in a breath. “Bloody hell, Potter, if we don’t get a move on we are going to be _late,_ and Andromeda will _kill_ us.”

“Fuck,” Potter swears, and they clean themselves up and jump to work.

* * *

In the end, they’re on time, but only just. The icing is lumpy in spots, not nearly the glossy confection Draco had envisioned when he cooked up this ridiculous plan, but Teddy looks delighted anyway, hugging them both hard around their knees and screeching about how _Cousin Draco and Uncle Harry made a_ whole cake _for me_ before he scampers off to join his friends in the garden.

Andromeda eyes them suspiciously; Draco had done his best to spell them both to neatness, but he’s still flushed and blotchy around his neck, and Harry’s lips are swollen. She doesn’t say anything, though, just raises a devastating eyebrow before taking the cake and spelling it ahead of her into the kitchen.

Potter winks and gets in a cheeky grope of Draco’s arse before he splits off to go chat with his Grangers. Draco smiles stupidly to himself before he shakes his head tracks down Blaise and Theo.

He can’t _wait_ for this party to be over; apologies to the birthday boy, but Draco’s got a few other things he’d like to do today.

**Author's Note:**

> the tumblr post for this fic is [here](https://bonesliketambourines.tumblr.com/post/633451591357415424/kinktober-day-28-in-a-pickle).


End file.
